


In Which Enjolras and Grantaire Go On a Date

by haplessmedstudent



Series: Hospital AU (That No One Asked For) [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, First Dates, Hamilton References, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8460391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haplessmedstudent/pseuds/haplessmedstudent
Summary: Enjolras is a Trauma resident and Grantaire used to be his Intern, until the latter shifted out -- but not before asking Enjolras on date.  They're all pretty well-adjusted in here, just a couple of dudes trying to survive residency training and fitting a semblance of a love life in between. Nothing revolutionary or dramatic.
Except if you ask Enjolras about lowering tobacco taxes.
(That's gotta be another fic, though.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I am basing this off of real-life experiences, although the Musain Medical Centre (MMC) is not based on a real institution. Any similarities you find are purely co-incidental.  
> 3\. You don't have to have read the other three fics before this, although that helps.  
> 4\. Now beta'd by the lovely TriumphantDisaster :D (http://archiveofourown.org/users/TriumphantDisaster) I made some more changes after they looked them over, so any remaining mistakes are mine.

~~

 

“Courfeyrac, I need a favor.”

The man in question, currently hanging out in the call room, squinted up at Enjolras from his precarious position on the lounge: laptop on his belly, head pillowed on a folded-up coat and legs crossed over a couple of duffels. Then he looked back at his screen. Enjolras sincerely hoped there was nothing breakable underneath those duffels. Courfeyrac sprawled over everything like a sagging porch.

“What is it, o chief?” He didn't stop typing.

The slightest tone of offhandedness was noticeable in Enjolras’ speech — “I need to have this Saturday afternoon off? I’m on-duty on Friday, and I was hoping if you could relieve me earlier. By like, 12, if possible, and I can relieve you early on Monday?” 

“Why, what’s happening on Saturday? 

“I have a date.”

This time, Courfeyrac sat up, his full attention on Enjolras. His eyes were comically wide and his eyebrows were raised, fingers finally stilling on the keyboard.

“You don't have to give me that face. I _do_ go on dates, you know.”

“Yeah, with people you meet at the gym! You just go on gym dates and swap protein pancake recipes or whatever and have sex during convenient times! You've never cleared off an entire Saturday before!”

“Okay, one, the level of attention you have for my dating life is alarming; and two, you make it seem like I go to the gym to pick guys up — which I don’t; and three, this is different because I want Saturday to be pretty special.”

Courfeyrac was looking at him like he was trying to figure out if Enjolras was potty-trained enough, and whether he could just let him inside the house already. “What kind of special are we talking about? Is it, ‘let me show you my fifteen pamphlet designs for raising tobacco taxes in descending level of persuasiveness’ special or ‘let me bring you to our ridiculous family mansion on the riviera’ special or ‘let me attempt to cook you a sugar-free gluten-free all organic Paleo dinner’ special —”

“— How do you just come up with these scenarios? —”

“Because I’m telling you, none of that is gonna fly with Grantaire —”

Enjolras’ blush, Courfeyrac was pleased to notice, was now showing up beneath his tan and along his ears. He looked like a flustered Labrador. It was amazing. 

“How did you know I was going on a date with Grantaire?”

“HA! Ha. Enjolras. Enjy. Jojo. What, do you think I'm an amateur? I knew before you were thinking of going on a date with R that you would eventually go on a date with R. I could sniff out the sexual tension a mile away. I saw this coming in September.”

Enjolras gave him a flat look. “I’m not just trying to sleep with him, okay. I want this to be a proper date. With dates after, plural. This thing with him has potential.”

The brunette stood up, sighed and put his hands on Enjolras shoulders, looking the other man in the eye. “I know you do. I just can’t help it that you’re a beautiful, emotionally-constipated asshole who can't even fry an egg properly, and now you’re going on dates that you didn’t need my wingman skills for.”

“…How do you always talk so much?”

“I had an Awake bar for breakfast and a can of Monster for lunch. And to answer your request, yes, I can relieve you early. You don't have to make it up on Monday.”

Enjolras grinned finally and gave Courfeyrac a noogie in response. That was his equivalent of a hug. Emotionally constipated, _swear._

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

“Wait, we’re not finished. I can't let you go unsupervised. What kind of special, _exactly_ , did you have in mind…?”

 

~~

 

No matter what his nanny had always predicted, Enjolras did not, in fact, grow up to be a lady-killer. (Or whatever the equivalent was for a dude who was also into dudes.) He didn’t have to wink at someone from across the room just to get them to go on a date with him. His milkshake did not bring all the boys to the yard. 

Enjolras could pine like a Taylor Swift song, circa 2008. 

Basically, he was just a regular twenty-six year old with a flourishing career, a woeful sex life and even more abysmal dating experience — trying to get ready for his first date in about a year. 

No big deal.

OK, so technically Grantaire had been the one to ask first, and the other man had dibs on dinner plans, but Enjolras figured he could sneak a little museum visit beforehand. And possibly coffee after. 

Actual coffee and dessert, of course. Never mind how Courfeyrac assumed his dates went.

He was feeling good about today; his duty hadn’t been too bad. No gunshot wounds, for one; an accidental stab wound on the arm of a 24 year-old-male, allegedly from repairing a window pane; five minor burn cases, none of them admissible; and a 72-year-old lady who fell on her hip and was referred to Ortho after Enjolras cleared her of other injuries. At around six a.m. there was a teenager who kept on arguing that his neighbour couldn't charge him with property damage because he had been drunk when he rode his scooter into her hedge (“I was drunk, man, it's not like I could see everything properly, I swear that hedge appeared out of nowhere” — Enjolras just looked at him flatly as he was conducting the patient to the MRI and said, “Well, I’m pretty sure you’re also looking at a DUI, but I’ll spare you that added headache for now, considering that’s what you hit her hedge with.”)

Not too bad, for 18 hours.

And after endorsements over lunch (Enjolras brought Courfeyrac a sushi burrito; it was his thing) finally: Saturday afternoon.

He opened his wardrobe and assessed his options. He figured he could wear khakis, for once. Plus he couldn't remember the last time he washed his jeans. Did those khakis still fit? — okay, a bit loose on the waist, good thing his mom wasn't there to harp on about not eating enough — but that’s what belts were for. He’d just wear the belt he got from the last holiday gift exchange. Maybe a white polo shirt to go with it. His least battered grey sneakers. His trusty black Garmin. A denim jacket if, heaven forbid, it decided to rain. 

He texted Grantaire fifteen minutes before he picked the man up: _waze says I shld b thr n 20. leaving now._

Barely a minute passed before: _Great! I’ll see you then. It’s the third door on the second floor, but I can meet you out in the curb so you don't have to park. My car’s in my parking spot. :D_

Enjolras replied with: _k see u soon_

And a fun aside: two days before, Enjolras went out to a florist and bought a Sempervivum. Which, he found out, was the name of the squat, fleshy succulent just beginning to turn red at this time of year. (Enjolras had wanted to bring Grantaire flowers, but for the most part he only knew about red roses and that they were entirely inappropriate at this point. So he Googled “flowers that say i like you” and some of the best rated answers on Quora said “plants in pots”. And thus he ended up with the red Sempervivum, because, to Enjolras’ critical eye, it looked kind of like a rose. If it were squatter, spikier, and sturdier. There was a metaphor there somewhere.)

And not thirty minutes later (traffic on the 101 was crazy, but what else was new) Enjolras was pulling up the curb and calling Grantaire.

“Hey, sorry I’m late. I’m just by the street outside. You ready?”

“Sure, hold on, I’m on my way out.”

Enjolras inhaled deeply to brace himself as door 2C of the complex opened and Grantaire emerged — and kept it in, his breath caught.

So obviously it wasn't like his attraction with Grantaire was anything new — he was Enjolras’ type, wiry and compact with a sharp-featured face, plus all that glorious curly hair — and he had done a good job treating him professionally at least, and as a friend at most, when they were in Trauma together. But there was something to be said out of seeing Grantaire in anything else than the shapeless scrubs. As well as the opportunity to properly and shamelessly ogle. 

The man had styled his hair — the curls still there but parted on the side and swept back slightly; clean-shaven, for once; no glasses in sight (and what a shame, Enjolras thought briefly to himself, before he forgot the thought altogether in the wake of everything else). A long-sleeved blue button-down patterned with little white ducks. A grey, linen sports coat covering it. And on his legs, jeans darker than the shirt and a formidable companion to the blue of his eyes, clinging to his legs like a persistent lover. The neutrality broken up by a thin red belt. And Enjolras looked him up and down and sideways and all over; Grantaire was wearing a pair of those wingtip-sneaker hybrids, the grey stitching intricate on leather and the soles red and unrepentant. He looked distractingly, achingly good. He looked like someone who should be on a fashion blog somewhere. Certainly not heading towards Enjolras under-dressed ass and into his beat-up Civic. 

Enjolras didn’t know how he got landed with this kind of GQMF. 

He hurriedly got up and opened the door of the passenger side with Grantaire still twenty feet away, and stood there opening it and staring a bit as the man walked over. “Uh, hi. Hi. I’m sorry I got here late. Some sort of hold-up on the freeway. You look really, really good. Here, hold on” — and Grantaire was now close enough to hug, but should Enjolras go for a hug? A handshake was too formal at this point, right? For some reason he wanted to just put his hands on either side of Grantaire’s face and kiss him on the nose like a mama seal but _this was why he hadn’t been on a date in the longest time ugh_ —

Grantaire solved the problem by reaching around for a one-armed sort of sideways-hug that simultaneously managed to be casual and affectionate. 

“Hey, no, it’s no problem, my cat was having a particularly clingy nap and I had to brush some cat hair off myself anyway. That’s a process. How are you?”

“I’m really good.” Enjolras said as Grantaire sat inside and Enjolras closed the door after him, going around the front and seating himself in the driver’s seat. He reached for the Sempervivum on the backseat. “This is for you. It’s a succulent.”

Grantaire smirked amusedly at Enjolras. “ _Sempervivum tectorum,_ a succulent commonly known as houseleek or, as ‘sempervivum’ connotes, ‘forever alive’. A hardy, flowering perennial able to live on stony mountains and rocky deserts. Traditionally grown on rooftops to ward off lightning and fire. Applied topically as an anti-inflammatory or ingested as a remedy against diarrhea. It looks very pretty, thank you.”

“…O-kay. Have you been hanging out with Courfeyrac again?”

Grantaire laughed as he cradled the pot carefully over his lap and patted its spiky top like a pet. “No, not really. Why, does Courfeyrac have an unreasonable fascination with houseplants as well?”

“No, but he comes up with things on the spot, too.”

“What?” Grantaire laughed again. It was a good sound. “No, hey, I didn’t just come up with that. I’ve always been a bit of a green thumb.”

Enjolras backed out of the driveway and kept smiling as he drove forward. “Well, I’ll make sure to bring you potted plants for every date then.”

He realized his presumptiveness and looked quickly at Grantaire as he manoeuvred into the freeway — “I mean, you know, if we ever—”

Grantaire didn’t seem to mind, and in fact, let his laughter turn into a soft smile — softer still the longer he kept looking at Enjolras. “I look forward to all the potted plants, Enjolras.”

“OK.” Enjolras ears were red, he could feel it. He tried to glare at a jaywalking pedestrian instead.

“The dates, eh, not so much—”

“Ha-very-ha.”

Grantaire’s teasing smile was ridiculous, because Enjolras couldn’t help but smile back instantly. Had he ever smiled this much around another human being? Was his face broken? The only other creature to inspire this kind of hapless joy from him had been his golden retriever, growing up. 

...That probably said something about his emotional maturity.

“Anyway, I have reservations for us at this Thai restaurant downtown — but that’s not until 7. You told me you had plans for the afternoon. Wanna fill me in?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras flipped his aviators down as he sped up, stick-shifting through the gears as he navigated the beginning onslaught of commuters. It was a valiant effort, in spite of the brutal traffic. “I’m trying to get us to the Hollywood Museum; the Chinese theater’s pretty nearby as well. You’ve ever been?”

“No. What’s in it?”

“Cary Grant and Gene Kelly’s handprints on the sidewalk. Also costumes, props, set pieces, memorabilia. The museums' not as famous as the LACMA or Madam Tussauds' nowadays, but it has a lot of the Old Hollywood type of stuff. I was thinking you’d enjoy it, because you look the way you do.”

Grantaire gave him a surprised glance, although Enjolras pretended not to notice anything behind his sunglasses. “And how is that?” He teased.

“Dapper as fuck.”

Another laugh, like he enjoyed Enjolras’ attempts at flirtation. It was nice to see Grantaire so amused. Maybe he’d be more amused to know that Enjolras was actually prepared to compliment the bridge of Grantaire’s nose or the shape of his thumbs, if it came to it. 

“I know you guys over in New York have all the best museums, but the fashion bit sold it for me. Plus, you told me you haven’t really been able to do tourist-y things in the half year you’ve been here.”

“Oh.” Grantaire appeared surprised that Enjolras would remember the things he used to chatter about when the pair went on rounds. “A fashion museum sounds pretty cool. Anything outside the Musain is honestly a tourist attraction already,” Grantaire said, jokingly. “Which reminds me — how was duty yesterday?”

“It was alright. I ended up admitting two. There was a 17-year-old waiting for a DUI charge and a repeat MRI when I left, but that’s about it. Courf covered for me.”

“Sweet.”

They left the freeway and turned down into Odin. The traffic was significantly more bearable with Grantaire in the car, unsurprisingly. “You mentioned a cat?” 

“Ah yeah, she’s a new rescue, just got her two weeks ago — her name’s Peggy.”

“You mean the littlest Schuyler? What does she do, tell you to be home by sundown and not to go downtown?”

“You got me; I’m from New York, Linnamon is a personal hero. And no, I don’t imagine Peggy liking you all that much.”

“I won’t worry about it. I hear she becomes pretty adventurous in later life.”

And on and on it went, the banter and the flirtation admixed with personal opinions and random thoughts— as they finally got to the museum, as Enjolras found a parking miraculously after just five minutes; as they went inside and marvelled at the Harry Potter installation; the Michael Jackson exhibit; the Marilyn Monroe memorabilia display They got to the Chinese theater and Enjolras’ feet matched Humphrey Bogart’s imprints perfectly; Julie Andrews’ hands were bigger than Grantaire’s. The blonde man found himself touching Grantaire on the small of his back as he ushered him through the doorways; Grantaire would hold Enjolras behind the elbow to get his attention. The museum offered a chance to talk quietly, murmurs shared closely between them. 

Enjolras kept looking at Grantaire, and every time he did, Grantaire was already looking back.

And then they went to dinner — “It’s just off Hollywood Boulevard, we can walk it, I promise, let’s leave the car,” was Grantaire’s suggestion; to which Enjolras asked “How did you even know about this place?” (Grantaire had just scoffed like it was Enjolras’ fault that he’d never heard of Roddad before, or understood the comparative qualities of duck noodle soups served in the city. “It’s not my fault your food prospects are limited to whatever’s seasonal in Whole Foods,” the brunette went on patronizingly. Enjolras couldn’t believe this man used to complete paperwork for him. How quickly the interns grew up.)

Later, as they walked out of the restaurant, stuffed with the aforementioned duck noodle soup, cold prawn salad and a shared bowl of curried crab, Enjolras’ hand resting lightly on Grantaire’s back as Grantaire triumphantly stowed away his credit card: “It’s kind of my thing, you know, when living in a new city — figuring out what the best things to eat and drink are and where to find them. Mexican cuisine and Japanese would be more obvious choices, given LA — but I just tried this last month and wanted to share it.”

“I’ve lived here since undergrad and never been, so thank you for that. I didn’t know curried crab was a thing I needed in my life.”

Grantaire’s smile turned a bit shy — “You flatterer. Next time I can show you the best places to drink. California has the best wine in this country. There’s an urban wine club thing here Downtown, in San Antonio. Have you been?”

“No. But, well. My family. Kind of owns a winery. In Santa Barbara.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“No, for real.”

 

“It’s not really commercialized, but it’s there.”

 

“Oh my goodness, you are straight-up blue-blooded, my man. Do you live by the coast? Is your family Cali royalty? How did I not know this about you?”

“Grantaire, no one who lives here actually uses the world ‘Cali.’”

“I’m a transplant, whatever, I’m excused. But never mind that. We have to make sure this date ends up going spectacularly so I can ask you out again and we can eventually level up onto a wine-tasting at your family’s freaking _estate_ , Enjolras.”

“Your family lives in a Manhattan townhouse, Grantaire, don’t even front.”

“Details,” the brunette said, with a wave of his hand. 

In spite of the teasing, as they walked the half-hour back to the car — they eschewed coffee, because they both had to clock in at the hospital tomorrow by 8 am sharp, and frankly Enjolras felt maddeningly, ridiculously awake and could see a bit of the same in Grantaire’s expressions —

“I’d love to take you there, one day.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It didn’t matter who said it first; the exchange was equally true, on both their parts.

And then Enjolras got the door for Grantaire, and Grantaire murmured a soft thanks; the plant lifted from the passenger seat and placed in his lap; Enjolras turned the ignition on, stick-shifted to reverse, and backed out of Highland; driving onto the freeway, clearer than before but nowhere near as clear as freeways ought to be at 10 pm; he gave Grantaire permission to hook the Spotify on his phone up to the speakers, Brit pop jangling out a minute later:

— “ _Wake me up, before you go-go?_ Let me guess, this is your Morning Run Playlist?”

“It’s the Be Motivated to Clean Your Room playlist, if you must know.” —

By time they got to Grantaire’s apartment, Brian Wilson was rhapsodizing, “ _Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up/ in the morning when the day is new?_ ” and Enjolras opened the door for Grantaire as the other man stood up and out. 

“Be careful with the chivalry — you’re gonna make me develop a complex, Enjolras.”

A pause, as Enjolras closed the door after Grantaire. And then a deep breath — “As a compromise, would you rather I kiss you here or after I walk you to your door?”

Blue eyes sought his own, and Enjolras could hear Grantaire inhaling a shuddering breath in reply. The other man looked up at him and stepped closer. “Would you judge me terribly if I said that the time it takes to go up the stairs is interminable?”

Enjolras stepped even closer, still. “No.”

“Good.”

Their breaths mingled. The streetlights and the plant boxes were nowhere near romantic, but Enjolras wasn't really looking at the scenery.

“May I?” he said, already holding the sides of Grantaire’s face with both hands and tilting it up; the Sempervivum Grantaire was holding between them being pressed tightly enough that Enjolras could feel its spikes against the cotton of his shirt.

“Please.”

As with first kisses that have been preluded by imaginings beforehand, there is the briefest moment of surrealism when the lips first touch each other: Enjolras couldn't imagine what Grantaire was feeling, but for him it was, foremost, the revelation of _I am kissing Grantaire and he is kissing me,_ and then the actual sensation — Grantaire’s upper lip overlapping his own, his bottom lip caught between Enjolras’. Soft, warm. Closed-mouth, the hint of wetness. Enjolras’ indrawn breath, like the realization of a kiss surprised him; Grantaire’s small sigh, like he had been waiting for this chance for a long time.

And then the kiss progressed with more force: a firmer press, and Enjolras angled his head sideways, Grantaire’s nose touched the bridge of Enjolras’ and settled against it. And suddenly there was room to kiss more firmly, for Grantaire to maneuver his tongue against the rim of Enjolras lips, for Enjolras to coyly coax Grantaire in; past the vermilion border and across the bony cage of the blonde’s teeth, allowing the exchange of air. And just when Grantaire was preparing to open his mouth fully into the kiss, Enjolras tongue came shrewdly out, pushing into the other man’s mouth, tasting and brushing and burning everything in its wake, mapping the cavern of his palate and the sensitive underbelly of Grantaire’s tongue and memorizing it, in as much as one is able, with a single sojourn.

And a moment for their tongues to twine against each other; subtle, nothing scandalous. Just the the sweet surprise of having a lovely person so close, and greeting him thusly — and with a final press, Enjolras pulled back. Just enough to breathe a little. Grantaire did the same, his eyes still closed. He was smiling.

“Was that alright?”

Grantaire drew in a bigger, shaky breath, Enjolras was pleased to note, but then— “As far as first kisses go, I think this one was slightly better than Samuel at the lockers, when I was twelve.”

Enjolras laughed into Grantaire’s mouth as he touched their foreheads together. His lips were still tingling, and the spikes of the Sempervivum were still digging into his shirt. That plant was vicious.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Only slightly better?”

“By, like, five percent.”

“I have a pretty steep learning curve.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“And I’m competitive.”

“Is that right?”

“'I'm never satisfied.' Also I’m gonna go now before I try to shut you up by kissing you again, because I know how to fight my battles. And that has the potential to be a vicious cycle, Grantaire.”

The other man was smiling at him, laughter in his eyes. Enjolras didn’t know if he’d ever seen Grantaire look this beautiful — but in the end he didn’t know if he’d ever seen Grantaire look this happy, either. Shifts at a hospital for the underserved weren’t necessarily awe-inspiring.

“I’ll see you at the Musain tomorrow?” Grantaire asked.

“Sure.”

The brunette was walking backwards, jacket unbuttoned, hair beginning to run wild underneath the product. Enjolras stood there watching him, the wind blowing chillier and chillier around him but his lips warm, still, where he’d kissed Grantaire and Grantaire had kissed him. 

“Do I wait for your call after three days and I pretend to think about whether or not I want to go on a date with you again?” Enjolras asked.

“You can ask me out this time,” Grantaire said, smiling. “I had a really good night, Enjolras.”

“Me, too. Thank you for dinner,” Enjolras smiled back. 

“My pleasure. Thanks for showing me around.” 

“You’re welcome.”

“Take care on the way home, alright?”

“I will. Why are we not shutting up?”

“It’s because you can still see my face and it’s making you stall.”

“Turn around and get your ugly mug out of the way, then,” Enjolras called.

Grantaire finally faced forward, laughing as he did so, and started climbing the stairs to his apartment. Enjolras watched him go, and not just because of the extremely well-fitted pants.

What a lovely turn of events. What a lovely evening with a lovely man. He should say something about this.

“I’m kidding! I like your mug!” Enjolras shouted from across the parking lot as Grantaire climbed the stairs to his apartment and walked to his front door. 

“I don’t know this man! Go home, strange person!” Grantaire said, laughing. A final wave at Enjolras, and Grantaire opened his door and went inside.

Enjolras watched him go. Then he turned and walked back to the driver’s seat, still smiling at himself. His face was probably broken, but he figured he could deal. 

He was probably going to be Googling "plants that say I really really like you” tonight.

 

~~

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I’m deciding to set this in Southern California. R’s gonna be from New York because the only place that boy can be from, if not Paris, is New York.  
> 2\. So E canonically lived in the South of France, right? At first I wanted him to be from Napa Valley so R would be super impressed and demand to go home and meet the family and the casks ASAP. But I also wanted E to have as close to a Mediterranean weather as possible. So he’s from Santa Barbara and lives by the Pacific coastline and wishes he didn’t like sailing as much as he does.  
> 3\. E was being catty with the drunk teenager. It’s his first duty in awhile without R. Sorry he’s not sorry.  
> 4\. That beat-up Honda Civic is one of the earlier editions that came with manual transmission. E doesn’t know it, but Grantaire was very distracted by all that manual gear-shifting.


End file.
